A Legacy of Hope

I would like to describe an event that returns to me in memory from the past. On a visit to the South many years ago, I found myself carrying it with me somewhere between the past and the present. I thought of it a great deal. It occurred in 1955 in Montgomery, Ala., at an allday meeting at Martin Luther King's church, the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church. Reverend King had just come to public notice. We had heard about him in Talladega County where I was attending college and, curious about him, decided to drive to Montgomery to see him.

We arrived in the morning, in time for a worship service at which King was to preach. I have to tell you about the spirit of the meeting, but the image I have of it is without the buoyancy, hope and excitement we felt that day. The image lacks these elements because although the congregation can be seen alive, moving, with faces expectant, there is no preacher behind the pulpit. But back to that morning in Alabama.

The man who was preaching as we entered was Reverend Holmes Borders of Atlanta, who was to warm up the congregation for Reverend King. Reverend Borders was known throughout the South as a great preacher and a dramatic speaker. As we sat down, Reverend Borders began his sermon not with words, but by moving the pulpit from the center of the church to the side. He then announced that where the pulpit had stood was now home base because he was going to preach about "the great baseball game." Reverend Borders believed that religion should be dramatized to make its point and that life should have laughter in it. The "great baseball game" had the following players:

First base, Faith; second base, Hope; third base, Charity, and short stop, Love. Other players were given virtuous titles: pitcher, Jesus Christ; catcher, Holy Ghost; batter, the Devil.

And the umpire was Almighty God, who stepped up behind home base and shouted, "Play Ball!!" Reverend Borders acted all this out in the place where the pulpit had stood. The congregation, to say the least, was caught up in Reverend Borders' drama; some were nearly on their feet, others raised a hand to let Borders know they were with him. I had seen that raised hand in my home church in Louisiana. The hand was a gesture from the black dance thrown out in anger on some occasions, and joy on others. Words were shouted in encouragement: "Yes, tell it, brother!" Reverend Borders continued until the umpire, Almighty God, had called the Devil out at the third strike. Then Borders launched into a litany of calling things out: "Slavery," he shouted, "You're out!" "Segregation," he roared, standing over home base like the umpire, "You're out."

After Reverend Borders' great baseball game was over, the congregation was in an excited, happy, uproar. Everyone said, "Amen," not meaning "peace be with you," but "a joyous mission is our proud duty to bear."

Reverend King came to the pulpit, clapping his hands, saying "Amen." He was happy, too. King began what he had to say quietly. But I remember his words: "We're starting out on a dangerous game, my friends, and yet I know God is with us."

He went on to explain what had to be done to reconstruct our racist society. He stressed the theme for which he was to become well known: the means to be used in the struggle must contain the quality of the end. The moral questions to be placed on Montgomery's agenda and on the nation's agenda were like Borders' great baseball game, in that they involved issues of right and of wrong. But, King cautioned, the task was complex and required both firmness, stamina and practical skills.

Today the event has a different significance for the observer of black history. In 1955, it stood as a portent of great things to come in King's career and that of his own congregation and black people in the nation. Now, it represents a judgement upon the present.

King's movement gained much for the blacks and for the whites as well. It held out as example, a way of life dedicated to principle and to justice that anyone might well pursue.

Because Reverend King's birthday is celebrated at this time of year, people in the South are thinking about him, remembering him in that special, difficult way you remember someone too deeply loved. A friend and I have talked about King and about the South today, a land full of expectation and bitterness. It is expectant because it is just possible that a new dimension in race relations can be achieved there, yet now the black community is not quite sure it wants complete integration. It wishes to explore black pride to see where it will lead. The bitterness is the legacy of a violent Southern history in which blacks were victims and when this history is re-enacted, the savage struggle between races is joined but is now more likely to be broken off after a while to share the intimacy of Faulkner's characters.

I heard King's preaching in the South and I yearn to hear his sermons again. I keep the text of "The Dimensions of a Complete Life," my favorite sermon, on my desk. It ends in hope:

"Love yourself, if that means rational, healthy and moral self-interest. You are commanded to do that. That is the length of life. Love your neighbor as you love yourself. You are commanded to do that. That is the breadth of life. But never forget that there is a first and even greater commandment, `Love the Lord thy God with all they heart and all thy soul and all thy mind.' This is the height of life. And when you do this you live the complete life.

Thank God for John, who, centuries ago, caught a vision of the new Jerusalem. God grant that those of us who still walk the road of life will catch this vision and decide to move forward to that city of complete life in which the length and the breadth, and the height are equal."

The religious language with which King described his life's goal points us toward secular goals as well. If only our society could be a "city of complete life" in which the savage urge of man to ostracize any one different from his clan would be replaced with love and good will. Archie C. Epps III is Dean of Students.